


The Midnight Train

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Third Star (2010), War Horse (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When ex-army doctor John Watson embarks on a journey to find himself after his best friend’s suicide, his travels lead him to a mysterious freighter known only as “The Midnight Train” where time is an illusion.  He finds himself travelling back and forth between war-torn England in 1917, a small Welsh bay in 2008, and London in 2010— connecting with three incarnations of his best friend.</p><p>As he’s faced with their eventual demises, he vows to change their fates—and through it, history.  But playing God can have far-reaching consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Midnight Train

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. Here we have a crossover of epic proportions. War Horse, Third Star, and of course, Sherlock. Title came from a song called “The Midnight Train to Georgia” by Gladys Knight and the Pips. Idea stemmed from a train ride through my hometown and a bit of homesickness.

**First Stop: Jamie, _1917_**

****

****

“ _He’s leaving_

_On that midnight train to Georgia._

_Said he’s going back to find_

_a simpler place in time._

_I’ve got to be with him_

_On that midnight train to Georgia._

_I’d rather live in his world,_

_Than live without him in mine.”_

_(“Midnight Train to Georgia”_ by Gladys Knight and the Pips _)_

****

 

 

One year, two months, and fourteen days.  That’s how long it takes John to pack a suitcase and purchase a one-way boarding pass out of London, and away from Baker Street--away from all of the half-finished experiments laying on the kitchen table, and the memory of blood on sun-warmed concrete.

He doesn’t take much when he goes; just a few jumpers and undershirts, a couple pairs of jeans, and his army boots.  Just enough to escape the suffocating presence of memories.  Enough to move on.

Sentimentality, however, has him grabbing Sherlock’s faded blue scarf. 

‘Just because of the chill.’  He lies to himself as he winds its familiar length thrice around his neck, and steps out onto the doorstep.  He pauses, taking a moment to drink in the familiar chipped green door with its well-loved golden numbers.  His haven from the world; his home with Sherlock, and he’s leaving it all behind.

His chest flutters and he straightens his spine.

He turns his back on 221B Baker Street for the last time.                                                                

***

The train station is nearly empty when he arrives, save for a vagrant bundled under a few tattered blankets on a bench nearby.  It’s 11:55.  The last train, the midnight train, is outbound in a matter of minutes.

He takes a seat near the figure and waits, resting his head on a pole.  He tries not to think about Sherlock but thinks of him anyway.  He wonders if he would have deduced the vagrant’s life story and decides that that sounds about right.  Probably would have made a huge production out of it, too.  The show-off. 

He smiles cautiously when the thought of Sherlock doesn’t make him want to cry.  It’s getting easier.

The wind picks up as a train pulls into the station.  The last train, the speakers announce, and he’s up again.  Trailing his suitcase behind him to make a huge mess out of the backs of his jeans.  The homeless man follows suit, probably waiting for the cargo hold to open up.

John hands the conductor his ticket, which is punched with a cheerful “Ta”, and he’s ushered to his car.  He’s used some of what is left in his savings to pull for a private car—Sherlock’s funeral and rent took a great majority of it.  He might be kicking himself for splurging later when he’s reduced to eating Cup o’ Noodles but, for now, it is money well-spent.  He needs the peace.

As he settles in, he sees the conductor escort another passenger by—the homeless man, surprisingly enough—and toward the back of the train.  On the trip back, the conductor pops his head in with a hearty grin and asks, “Just a quick check-in.  What brings you to this old late-runner, friend?”  His accent is thick; Scottish, John decides.

John shrugs, glancing down at the man’s name tag—“Bill”--, and says, “Just needed to get away for a while.”

Bill hums thoughtfully at this, the sound throaty and infectious.  John finds himself smiling reluctantly back.  “What’s this, then?  Running away from someone?  A secret love affair?”

“Nothing that romantic, I’m afraid.” John chuckles, appreciating the man’s good-natured ribbing.  “I’m just trying to find a little normalcy is all.”

“Dunno if this is the right train for ‘normalcy’.” Bill says.  “Just last week we had a lass disappear from one of the compartments half-way through her journey.  Left all of her things on board.” 

John raises an eyebrow in surprise.  “You’re sure she wasn’t kidnapped?”  He can’t help it.  Years of rooming with a detective makes him look at everything like it’s a potential case.

“Nothin’ like the sort.” The man dismisses, waving his hand.  “Left a note behind saying she’d send for the rest of her luggage when she got done.”

John sits forward in his seat, intrigued.  Bill notices and his eyes crinkle.  “Done?  Done with what?”

He must have asked the right question because the man lights up at this, small quirk of his lips turning into a full-blown grin.  “Not _what_.  Who.  She’d taken up with some fellow back in one of the farming towns we’d passed through.  Saw her milling about with him the last time we were there.”

“Oh.”  That isn’t so unusual then.  He can’t help the disappointment in his voice.

A few cars away, a whistle sounds and Bill straightens up, one hand resting on the door latch. 

“Turned out to be her husband,” He says, and pats the door, turning to leave.  He stops in the doorway and grins over his shoulder. “Who died ten years ago.  How’s that for ‘normalcy’?”

The door slides shut behind him.  John stares after him thoughtfully; bewildered and more than a little enthralled. 

Not normal indeed.

***

 

It doesn’t take long for the train to depart, winding leisurely down the tracks; intent on heading out of the city and toward the rural Surrey countryside.  Away from the smog, pollution, and elevated crime rates.  Sherlock would’ve hated it here; he would have been so bored.

It’s exactly what John needs.

The train is scheduled for an overnight stop in Surrey Hills in just an hour’s time before it continues wending for Hampshire come morning.  He wants a chance to explore the scenery until he’s had his fill--anything to scrub the scent of London from his skin.

He props his elbow against the window sill, resting his chin in palm as he watches the city blur past in a mosaic of grey, brown, and black.  Autumn in London probably dulls in comparison to a place as rustic as Surrey but it’s the only one he’s ever known.  He can’t help the surge of homesickness as the train ducks into a tunnel, replacing his view with grey cement and graffiti.

He bids London a silent farewell and closes his eyes, almost immediately falling into a restless slumber. 

He dreams of long, pale fingers stroking his brow and promises whispered brokenly into his hair; of 221 B Baker Street crumbling to dirt and brick dust before his feet, as slender saplings burst through the rubble and become massive oak trees; of Sherlock walking into the sea—only it’s not really Sherlock, is it?  His hair’s too short.-- as Bill the train conductor looks on, crying silently; of guns and horses and death and blood…

He jolts awake; Sherlock’s name clinging to his lips.

***

Everyone aboard the train has bunkered down at a modest Inn about a half kilometre’s trek from the rail station.  Luckily, room and board come part and parcel with the train ticket so he’s not much else to do once everyone’s settled.  He manages to choke down a late night meal of beef stew—which would have taste wonderful had John any appetite to speak of—and then he’s scraping out of his chair, heading for the door. 

The outdoors beckons him, luring him away from present company and toward solitude.  Bill warns him of the departure time and then John’s off, gently closing the inn door behind him as he goes.

It takes him a moment once he’s outside to take in the sheer enormity of the sights.  Everything is sharper and so much cleaner than what he’s used to.  The air is biting and unbelievably fresh.  He zips up his jacket as he cranes his neck back, drinking in the sight of the night sky.  Even the stars seem brighter.  They blaze overhead like tiny pinpricks of white fire in the sky, illuminating acres and acres of dark green earth.  It’s usually too difficult to see so late at night.  John thinks he can even make out the outline of a few horses behind a fence a little ways off.

That intrigues him.  He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a horse in person before.

Before he knows it, he’s crunching his way off the graveled path and sinking his boots into damp earth.  His breath steams in the air as he breathes out the sweet smell of hay.   He carefully picks his way toward the pen, mindful of the mud and dead leaves caking themselves into his soles.

As he draws closer, he can make out the tall silhouette of a man leading one of the larger horses toward the gate.  His hands grip the reigns as he expertly maneuvers the horse out, and then gracefully vault astride the large beast.  John watches in fascination as the horse canters toward where John’s leaning against the fence.

The man slows the horse to a stop when he notices him.  John raises a hand in greeting, delighted at the sight of the horse pawing the ground, and the man hesitantly raises a hand in return.  His face is obscured by shadows, so John can’t tell if he’s annoyed by his presence.  He has a moment to feel slightly guilty at this before the man is swinging himself out of the saddle and onto the ground, his posture impeccable.

“Are you lost, my good man?” The stranger rumbles in a familiar voice, walking forward into the light illuminating from the barn.

John’s mouth goes dry. 

 He starts closing the distance between, heart racing and mind desperate.  When he gets within arm’s length, he stops; forcing himself not to grab the man, who’s staring back at him with an unreadable expression on his familiar face.  “Sherlock?” 

John drinks the sight of him in from his position in the shadows, taking in the man’s much shorter hair—which glints a light brown instead of the usual black.  He has Sherlock’s face, of that John has no doubt—right down to the slanted pale eyes and sharp cheekbones-- but he’s sporting a thick, turn-of-the-century mustache.  His clothing is just as out-of-vogue as his facial hair, a coarse brown-green military affair worn by the British army…back in World War I.

“You’re not Sherlock.” John whispers, disbelief stealing over him as he ghosts his finger across the man’s brass nameplate: _Major J. Stewart_.  The letters are etched into the metal, blazing like a brand under his touch.  “You can’t be.”

The man inhales sharply as John steps closer, out of the shadows and into the light.  He takes an almost reluctant step forward of his own, and reaches out a gloved hand to hover uncertainly near John’s face.  His breath is warm and pleasant against John’s skin as he breathes, “ _I know you_.” and finally, _finally_ places his hand against John’s cheek.

A surge of electricity.  Stunning, overpowering.  John shudders and leans into his touch, covering the warm hand with his own.  They both stare at each other, John overwhelmed by a crushing sense of déjà vu.  Sharp, colourless eyes caress his face, intense with a juxtaposition of terror and yearning.

 “I’ve dreamt of you all of my life. I know your face more than my own, and yet I have never met you before now.”  The man’s voice is filled with awe, an emotion out of place in Sherlock’s normally dry baritone. 

There are more subtle differences to their voices.  This stranger’s, for example, is more refined; his cadence as eloquent and antiquated as his clothing. 

John doesn’t understand.  It frightens him just as much as it baffles him, if he’s entirely honest with himself.  But at the same time, it’s irrefutable.   This man--who could very well be Sherlock’s twin brother--stands before him, solid and alive beneath his fingertips.  Completely _not_ a figment of John’s imagination.

He takes it all, though.  He devours every hint of Sherlock he sees in this familiar stranger; feasting on the glimmer of intelligence in the man’s eyes, and ingesting every tantalizing bit of control echoing throughout the man’s body.  All the little similarities.  He stuffs himself with these teasing snatches of Sherlock, and yet, it isn’t enough. 

It will never be enough.

“You’re not him.” John blurts out, backing away.  The man’s arm falls uselessly by his side.  “I can’t… This is too cruel.  I’m sorry.”

He turns to leave.  The man inhales sharply, and grabs John’s arm, spinning him back around; closing the distance between them with one long stride.  “Stay,” He demands.  “Stay here with me.”

“I need to get back.  They’re probably exp--”

He dips his head down and kisses John silent.

 _Oh._  

Sherlock had never done that. 

John groans involuntarily and the man uses that advantage to lick his way into John’s mouth, coaxing and teasing.  Their tongues clash and surge against each other, hot and wet and better than anything he’s ever felt before. 

He savours, taking delight in the flavour of salt and metal on his tongue.  The man tastes like adrenaline; like the heat of battle, a taste John finds as much comforting as enflaming.  He quietly revels in their combined heat, panting as the man trails along the corners of his mouth and then dips his tongue back in for another taste.

And if this is madness--this liquid heat scorching through his veins and toward his heart, igniting everything into a raging inferno-- if this is insanity then, dear god, let him burn.

***

It’s some time before they pull apart, and even then it’s with great reluctance and only because John needs to breathe. 

What a silly, mundane thing breathing is.

They gasp against each other’s mouths, shaking as they cling to each other.  Laughter bubbles out from John’s chest; involuntary and feeling like the hysteria that comes from surviving a nearly fatal misstep.  The strength of his emotions is confusing.  He can see hints of the same bewilderment reflected in the man’s eyes, slowly replacing mirth and arousal.

John forces himself to take a step back, as much for the man’s sake as his own.

“That was...”  He clears his throat, attempting to remove the taste of dust and battle and Sherlock from his palate.  His eyes prickle in warning at the reminder.  He has no words.  It is both everything he never knew he wanted, and, in the same vein, not nearly enough.  He aches to draw the man back in; to be entirely consumed by him.  And yet…

The man smiles at him, eyes crinkling in the corners as Sherlock’s were wont to do.

And yet, Sherlock.

“Wonderful?”  The man supplies in his wake, reaching out to touch his cheek.  John tries to ignore the sharp burst of pain in his chest at the gentle etching of fingers across his skin.

“Confusing.”  John corrects.  “I don’t even know your name.”

The man is suddenly shy, all traces of the demanding lieutenant disappearing into the boyish, bashful lines of hesitant adoration.  “Jamie Stuart. Nice to meet you.”  

 

**Author's Note:**

> More to come. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, opinions, comments, and concerns.


End file.
